Empty House
by Fueled By Dr. Pepper
Summary: All the stuff I think might go down between Sherlock and John in season three's first episode. 1109 words. Spoilers for Reichenbach, ACD's "The Empty House".


It's a dull morning. The clouds are low hanging but just thin enough to let light through, in a way. Perpetual late afternoon – like a 2 pm slump that lasts from start to finish.

John doesn't mind. He doesn't put in the effort to mind much of anything anymore. He just goes from work to home to bed and back again. And on the day off, like the one of the dull morning, he sits and reads the paper. Front to back. Has a tea with milk and toast with jam.

But it catches his eye. The peripheral vision registers the movement in the shadow. He doesn't move – the prey will stalk him, coming closer as it gets its bearings. But the intruder comes into view and it's all too much. John sets his cup down and gets up. There is only one beat of silence before he grabs his coat and starts down the stairs.

"John," Sherlock starts, "John, wait."

John pauses on the bottom step. Then he rushes out the door. Sherlock follows.

"John, please."

John walks on, like he can't hear above the white noise of the street.

"John, I'm sorry."

His pace quickens the slightest bit.

Sherlock follows. Like a shadow, he moves with John. From 221B to the park to the shop back to the flat. John ignores him, taking time to stop and look at things that catch his eye that are not Sherlock.

When he gets back to the flat, he resumes his routine, still pointedly not acknowledging the other man.

"John, please. Say something to me."

"Why don't you hold your breath for that? It should only be about, mmm, three years' wait."

Sherlock sighs before sitting in a chair, "Technically, though, that would count."

John set the paper back down.

"Three years, Sherlock. Three years of rent on my own, of comforting Mrs. Hudson and dealing with Mycroft. Three years worth of pain, on my end, not that it would even occur to you that might happen."

Sherlock rises, picking up his violin bow from precisely where he last left it, and stares out the window.

"I knew that would happen. I . . . I tried to maintain that the end justified the means."

John exhales in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose, "What end? Don't become all chilly and cryptic again, like none of this ever happened. It was annoying back then."

Sherlock turns on his heel, "I died, if in spirit only, to protect everyone around me. In the most simple of terms, getting rid of Moriarty was a final problem indeed – I had to go down fighting him every inch of the way."

"So you don't let anyone in, you have to face it all by yourself. You know, the various homeless people you slipped 20's to knew, but the rest of us – "

Sherlock winces, only just a bit – around his eyes, and John sees it.

"Who knew?"

Sherlock twirls the bow in his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, who else knew?"

"Someone had to maintain the flat as I had left it, even with you here – "

" – Mrs. Hudson, then."

"And I needed someone with power to help keep my profile from resurfacing – "

" – Mycroft, I should have known."

"Of course, Molly Hooper was an invaluable asset, assisting me in faking the death."

The air is caught in John's throat. Sherlock braces for the inevitable outburst by holding up his hands in surrender.

"Bloody hell! This is . . . typical. I should have figured it out! Sherlock Holmes, the man with the plan. John Watson, the clueless sidekick. Tell me, did you ask them to act upset around me just so, not in my wildest dreams would I ever think you could possibly be alive? Because then, every single one of those people deserves an award; a BAFTA for everyone, for fooling John Watson!"

John is pacing, back and forth. Sherlock follows him with his eyes, not wanting to upset him further with any sudden movements.

"Please, John," he starts, "let me explain – "

"No!"

John shakes his head, standing in front of Sherlock.

"Wait, yes. Please explain why everyone else in your life got the comfort of knowing the truth when all I had left was an empty house. Go ahead."

Sherlock's lips are parted slightly, though he has decided not to speak further.

John moves over, collapsing into a chair with its back to Sherlock. Sherlock turns again toward the window. After a pause, the door slowly creaks open. Mrs. Hudson shuffles in, timid and worried.

"Is the row over or is this the breather before another round of it?"

John cracks his knuckles, fuming. She skitters toward him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh dear, I know it's difficult. It was so hard keeping it from you. And knowing how much it all hurt you."

She begins to tear up, "That was what kept me so upset, knowing how much you two missed each other."

Sherlock glances toward them. John slumps in his seat, covering his eyes.

"Well, by now, no one misses anyone else."

Sherlock reverts his eyes back to the window. Mrs. Hudson pats the chair and exits the room.

John almost forgets that Sherlock is still there when his voice breaks the silence.

"I'm here for a reason."

John scoffed, "You wouldn't be here without one. What is it?"

"I need you," Sherlock pleads.

John doesn't move or speak.

"Lestrade doesn't know either – I'm not sure he'd be allowed to help even if he did. But I'm tracking a loose end – the last loose end – of the Moriarty case. His right hand man not only knows I'm alive; he's focused on changing that. I need help taking him down so I can be back here. Back to the way things were before. I need a friend, John. My only friend."

John turns his head in Sherlock's direction without actually looking at him, "Things will never be the way they were before."

Sherlock begins to leave the room.

"But," John stands, "I feel it's my duty to see this case through to the very end."

Sherlock observes him, standing straight with his head level and fists clenched – a picture perfect solider.

"There's no obligation, John."

John cracks the half smile he reserves for formalities, "I have to insist, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sweeps his arm out the door, "Lead the way, Dr. Watson."

Outside, it's a dull afternoon. The clouds are high in the sky, tightly packed with water. But Sherlock knows that the pressure is temporary. The rain will fall and the clouds will dissipate, eventually.


End file.
